I flipped open a fresh notebook and readied my pencil. "What kind of photos are we talkin' about?" He didn't say anything, so I raised a brow at him and lifted my gaze from my notebook to peer across at him. "What's goin' on in them?"
He looked uncomfortable, and spent a little time shifting and twisting in his seat. By the time he was done, he didn't look any more comfortable; he just added nervousness to it. "If I wanted people to know about them, I'd just tell the guy to just go screw himself." There wasn't any punch to his words, he just sounded tired.
"Yeah, but he's blackmailin' you." I tapped the eraser of my pencil against my notepad. "So you know he's not exactly the most scrupulous around, yeah?" I watched him, waiting for understanding to dawn. It didn't. People who haven't dealt with this sort of thing sometimes forget the practicalities. Father of a teenage runaway got indignant when I started flipping through her diary for hints, not long ago. Until I pointed out that she pretty much outlined her whole plan there. "I don't know what I'm lookin' for, especially if you're expectin' me not to look at any photos I might get. How do I know I got the real thing?"
There it was. His eyes got wide for a moment, then he frowned. Or, I should say, he frowned deeper - he hadn't stopped frowning since he came in. He turned his head, enough for him to see the door out of my office, and I thought he might bolt. "I... I don't know, Mr. Jameson..."
I could use his money, so I wanted to keep him there, but latching on too tight would just spook him even more. "Unless you're hurtin' someone in these pictures, John, I'm not the sort to judge." His name wasn't John - I'd made a couple of deliveries to his place back when I worked for Crimson Couriers - but I didn't see any need to tell him I knew that. I let him have what anonymity he thought he could get. "But, unless you pay him, someone will find out about whatever you're hidin'. And payin' him isn't any guarantee, especially if he thinks he can milk you for more. Better me than whoever you're afraid of him showin', yeah?"
"What? He gave me his word that if I..." He trailed off and slumped down in his chair, looking defeated. I could actually pinpoint the moment when he remembered he was dealing with a blackmailer, not someone he could trust. End result was that he looked about a foot shorter, a decade older, and a sleepless week more tired. "He gave me one of them. Said he wanted to prove to me that he had them." He reached down and lifted his briefcase to his lap.
While I waited for his shaking fingers to work the combinations, I jotted down some notes, taking account of my assumptions so far. Mostly I was just looking somewhere other than him, hoping it'd help him calm down a bit. I had a pretty good idea of what I was going to be dealing with. He was too quick to forget that criminals aren't honest and straightforward, so I figured this was probably more in the realm of embarrassing than incriminating. I heard his briefcase click open. "Did he tell you how many photos he's got?" I looked up at him after asking the question.
And found myself looking down the barrel of a gun.
He looked uncomfortable, and spent a little time shifting and twisting in his seat. By the time he was done, he didn't look any more comfortable; he just added nervousness to it. "If I wanted people to know about them, I'd just tell the guy to just go screw himself." There wasn't any punch to his words, he just sounded tired.
"Yeah, but he's blackmailin' you." I tapped the eraser of my pencil against my notepad. "So you know he's not exactly the most scrupulous around, yeah?" I watched him, waiting for understanding to dawn. It didn't. People who haven't dealt with this sort of thing sometimes forget the practicalities. Father of a teenage runaway got indignant when I started flipping through her diary for hints, not long ago. Until I pointed out that she pretty much outlined her whole plan there. "I don't know what I'm lookin' for, especially if you're expectin' me not to look at any photos I might get. How do I know I got the real thing?"
There it was. His eyes got wide for a moment, then he frowned. Or, I should say, he frowned deeper - he hadn't stopped frowning since he came in. He turned his head, enough for him to see the door out of my office, and I thought he might bolt. "I... I don't know, Mr. Jameson..."
I could use his money, so I wanted to keep him there, but latching on too tight would just spook him even more. "Unless you're hurtin' someone in these pictures, John, I'm not the sort to judge." His name wasn't John - I'd made a couple of deliveries to his place back when I worked for Crimson Couriers - but I didn't see any need to tell him I knew that. I let him have what anonymity he thought he could get. "But, unless you pay him, someone will find out about whatever you're hidin'. And payin' him isn't any guarantee, especially if he thinks he can milk you for more. Better me than whoever you're afraid of him showin', yeah?"
"What? He gave me his word that if I..." He trailed off and slumped down in his chair, looking defeated. I could actually pinpoint the moment when he remembered he was dealing with a blackmailer, not someone he could trust. End result was that he looked about a foot shorter, a decade older, and a sleepless week more tired. "He gave me one of them. Said he wanted to prove to me that he had them." He reached down and lifted his briefcase to his lap.
While I waited for his shaking fingers to work the combinations, I jotted down some notes, taking account of my assumptions so far. Mostly I was just looking somewhere other than him, hoping it'd help him calm down a bit. I had a pretty good idea of what I was going to be dealing with. He was too quick to forget that criminals aren't honest and straightforward, so I figured this was probably more in the realm of embarrassing than incriminating. I heard his briefcase click open. "Did he tell you how many photos he's got?" I looked up at him after asking the question.
And found myself looking down the barrel of a gun.